There was a time in my life when I thought silence was strength. I believed that hiding pain was better than burdening others, that smiling through the hard days meant I was “fine.” But I’ve come to learn that silence, when it comes to mental health, is not strength, it’s isolation. And I know I’m not the only one who’s felt this way. So many people walk through life carrying invisible weight, desperate for someone to notice, to care, to ask, “Are you really okay?” My mission is to be that someone, for anyone who needs it. I want to help bring light to the shadows of mental health, where so many are suffering quietly, and create a world where no one feels ashamed for simply being human. My passion for mental health doesn’t come from textbooks or statistics, it comes from lived experiences. I’ve seen people I care about struggle with anxiety, depression, and self-doubt. I’ve watched as they tried to navigate life with a smile on their face and storms in their mind. I’ve been there too, questioning my worth, overthinking every little thing, feeling overwhelmed by expectations. And I’ve learned that one of the most powerful things we can offer each other isn’t advice or solutions, but understanding. I plan to make a positive impact on the world by dedicating my time, voice, and heart to mental health advocacy. I want to help break the stigma that still surrounds mental illness, the kind that makes people feel weak for needing help or ashamed for not being “happy enough.” Through community outreach, school programs, and open conversations, I hope to create safe spaces where people can be honest about what they’re going through, without fear of being judged or dismissed. But more than just speaking out, I want to show up, consistently, genuinely, and with empathy. Whether it’s comforting a friend during a panic attack, organizing awareness events at school, or volunteering with organizations that support mental wellness, I want my actions to reflect my belief that every person deserves to feel seen and supported. I also want to focus on reaching young people, especially those who feel alone in their struggles. Too often, mental health challenges begin early, but go unnoticed or unaddressed until they become overwhelming. If we can provide education and support early on, we can change the way an entire generation views their emotional well-being. I believe prevention and early intervention are key to healing, and I want to be a part of building that foundation. In a world that often glorifies perfection, I want to celebrate authenticity. In a society that moves fast, I want to be someone who slows down and listens. Real change doesn’t always come from loud voices or grand gestures, it comes from compassion. From sitting beside someone in silence. From checking in without being asked. From reminding people that they matter, exactly as they are. Making a positive impact to me means helping even just one person feel less alone. It means using my experiences and my heart to make someone else’s journey a little lighter. And if I can do that, if I can be the person I once needed then I’ll know I’m making the kind of difference that truly lasts.

The spring of my seventh-grade year was supposed to be filled with celebrations, last memories with middle school friends, and excitement for high school. Instead, it became one of the most challenging seasons of my life. The COVID-19 pandemic hit with full force, and overnight, everything changed. I went from walking through crowded school hallways and looking forward to end of the school activities to being stuck in my house, isolated from the people and experiences I loved most. The most painful part was not being able to see my mom for a whole month. She was working in a medical setting at the time, constantly exposed to the virus, and we made the difficult decision for her to stay somewhere else to protect the rest of our family. That month felt like an eternity. I missed her comforting presence, her hugs, her voice echoing through the house. As a young teenager, I didn’t fully understand the magnitude of the pandemic, but I understood what it meant to miss your mom and not know when she’d safely return. As if that weren’t enough, during that same time, my grandfather, who had always been a steady, loving figure in my life, passed away. Because of the virus, we couldn’t hold a proper funeral or be together as a family to grieve. It felt surreal and unfair, as if the world had pressed pause on all the good things while the bad things just kept coming. The loss of my grandfather while being physically separated from my mom made me feel emotionally stranded. At first, I felt powerless. But over time, I realized that the only way to make it through was to shift my perspective. Instead of seeing this adversity as something that was happening to me, I began to see it as something I had to grow through. I leaned on small routines to bring stability to my days, journaling, prayer, schoolwork, and FaceTime calls with my mom and friends. I also started talking more openly about how I felt, something I had never really done before. Grief, anxiety, loneliness, they all had to be named to be handled. This experience transformed the way I view life. I learned that loss and separation are deeply painful, but they also reveal what matters most. I now cherish time with my family in a way I never did before. I’ve come to understand how quickly life can change, and that’s made me more intentional in how I spend my time and how I treat others. The pandemic taught me resilience, not in the absence of struggle, but in the decision to keep going despite it. Looking back, that painful stretch during seventh grade helped shape the person I’m becoming. I faced real loss and emotional hardship, and yet I came out more grounded, more grateful, and more compassionate. Life isn’t always predictable or fair, but even in moments of tremendous adversity, there’s room to grow and discover strength you didn’t know you had.

Cancer has deeply affected my life through the loss of someone very dear to me, my grandfather. He was more than just a family member; he was a light in our lives, the glue that held our family together, and especially the spirit behind our favorite holiday: Christmas. My grandfather had always made Christmas feel magical. Every year, he went out of his way to make the season special. Whether it was stringing up lights in the freezing cold, playing classic Christmas music on repeat, or making sure every family member felt loved and remembered, he brought joy and warmth to the season. It wasn’t just about the gifts or decorations, it was the way he brought everyone together. No matter how busy life got or how far apart we all lived, Christmas was the one time we always gathered. And that was because of him. When we found out he had cancer, everything changed. At first, there was hope. We believed he could beat it, he was strong, full of life, and had always taken care of himself. But over time, the treatments became harder on his body, and we started to see that the man who once made everything feel so steady was slowly slipping away. It was heartbreaking to watch. He tried to keep his spirit up, especially during the holidays. Even when he was weak, he still found ways to make Christmas feel special. He’d sit on the couch wrapped in a blanket, still smiling, still telling stories, still trying to make us laugh. It was as if he was holding on just long enough to give us one last Christmas together. And he did. But shortly after, in the beginning of December, he passed away. His death left a hole in my heart, and in the hearts of everyone who loved him. The house felt quieter. Christmas felt different. There was an emptiness where his voice used to be, where his laughter used to echo. That year, and every year since, the holiday has felt bittersweet. We still gather, because that’s what he would have wanted. But there’s always a sense that something is missing, because someone is missing. Losing my grandfather to cancer made me realize how precious time is. It taught me how illness can change everything in the blink of an eye. But it also showed me the power of love, the importance of family, and the way one person’s presence can impact so many lives. My grandfather’s strength, even in his final days, inspires me to live with purpose and to appreciate every moment with the people I love. Cancer may have taken him from us physically, but his memory lives on in every Christmas light, every shared meal, and every time we come together as a family. I carry his love with me always, and though his absence hurts, his life continues to guide and shape mine.

My parents divorced when I was in kindergarten, an age where most kids are still learning how to tie their shoes, not how to split their lives in two. At the time, I didn’t fully understand what was happening. All I knew was that one day I was living in the same house with both of my parents, and the next, I was carrying my backpack and favorite stuffed animal back and forth between two homes. The most immediate change I noticed was the schedule. Every week, I’d pack up my things and move from one house to the other. It was a constant cycle of transition, living with my mom for a few days, then with my dad for a few. I learned to live out of a bag, always aware of where my toothbrush, homework, and favorite pajamas were. It forced me to grow up quickly in some ways. While most of my classmates had the consistency of one home, I was juggling two different routines, sets of rules, and emotional environments. Emotionally, it was confusing. At each parent’s house, I felt the pressure to be “okay” so that they wouldn’t worry about me or feel guilty. I didn't want to take sides, but sometimes it felt like I had to. If I had a great weekend with my dad, I felt bad telling my mom. If my mom did something special with me, I’d hesitate to mention it to my dad. I wanted both of them to know I loved them equally, but I was constantly afraid of hurting their feelings. There were also moments of loneliness. During school events or holidays, seeing other kids with both parents together brought up a deep ache in me. I often wished I had a “normal” family, even though I came to understand that “normal” doesn’t look the same for everyone. My parents did their best to show up for me, and I’m grateful for that. But it was never easy to walk out of a dance recital or school conference and decide which parent to go home with that night. At the same time, the experience taught me resilience. I learned how to adapt quickly to changing circumstances. I became more empathetic, understanding that adults, too, can struggle, and that love sometimes looks different than what we imagine. I saw my parents as real people, not just “Mom” and “Dad,” but individuals with emotions, mistakes, and hopes of their own. I learned to appreciate the small things: a quiet evening with my mom watching movies or a weekend project with my dad building something in the garage. The divorce also shaped how I view relationships. I’m more cautious now, but also more intentional. I’ve seen firsthand what happens when communication breaks down or when people grow apart, and that’s taught me the importance of honesty, effort, and compromise. I’ve also realized that family isn’t defined by one house, one set of parents, or one version of stability. It’s defined by love, support, and the effort people put into staying connected, even when it’s hard. Looking back, I can’t say the divorce was easy. It changed my childhood in ways I’m still unpacking. But I can say that it made me stronger. It taught me to adapt, to feel deeply, and to find peace in the in-between spaces. While I wouldn’t wish the experience on anyone, I’m proud of the person I’ve become because of it.

Mental illness has always been apart of me. I never asked for it, yet it seemed to shape so much of who I became. Growing up, I often wondered why I couldn’t feel like everyone else. Why did I feel like I was drowning in an ocean of emotions, while the world around me moved on? Depression became a constant companion, one that I couldn’t shake no matter how hard I tried. It wasn’t just sadness. It was a suffocating heaviness that dragged me down into the darkest corners of my mind. There were times when it felt as though life wasn’t worth living, and the weight of it all pushed me to the brink. I attempted to escape, to silence the voices telling me I wasn’t enough and would never be. Even in those moments of despair, I didn’t really want to die. I just wanted the pain to stop. I wanted to feel something other than the relentless numbness that seemed to consume me. I wanted to breathe without feeling as though I was suffocating on my own thoughts. The darkness seemed so deep and endless, and I didn’t know how to climb out. Anxiety only added to the chaos in my mind. It was never just the normal worries people have, it was a constant buzz in the back of my head, a feeling that something was always about to go wrong. The world felt so loud and overwhelming, like I couldn’t escape the noise inside my head. Every day was a battle to push through, to pretend I was okay when I was anything but. The fear of failure, of disappointing those I loved consumed me. I was terrified of everything and nothing at the same time. And then there was the derealization. I would look around, and everything felt unreal. The world seemed distant as though I was watching life unfold through a foggy window. I felt like I was living in someone else’s story, disconnected from reality, as if I was watching myself from the outside. It made me question everything, who I was, what I was doing here, and if any of this even mattered. I was scared to tell anyone what was going on inside me. How could I explain something that I didn’t understand myself? I bottled it all up, hoping the weight would just go away, but it only grew heavier with each passing day. Eventually, I realized I wasn’t alone. My family, though they didn’t always know how to help, loved me in ways I couldn’t always comprehend. There were days I could barely get out of bed, and yet they kept showing up, offering their love when I couldn’t see the value in myself. It wasn’t easy for them either. Watching someone you love struggle with mental illness is a heartbreak in itself. But their love became my lifeline when I had none left for myself. I wish I could say that healing was quick, that everything magically became better. But it hasn’t. Some days feel impossible. But I’ve learned that healing is not about erasing the darkness, it’s about learning to live with it, to acknowledge it, and to let it shape me into someone stronger. And though I still fight those demons, I know that I’m not defined by my mental illness. The journey is long, but every step forward reminds me that I am worth fighting for. Even when I feel broken, I know that I can rebuild.

For as long as I can remember, social anxiety has been a quiet, ever-present shadow that has followed me through every step of my life. It’s a constant struggle that robs me of opportunities, leaving me feeling trapped inside my own head, with red cheeks and a mind that never stops racing. The pressure to fit in, to speak up, to be noticed, it’s overwhelming, and often, it feels impossible. Every social situation is a battlefield. My thoughts race at a million miles an hour, each one more anxious than the last: What if I say the wrong thing? What if they don’t like me? What if I embarrass myself? My heart pounds in my chest, and my face turns hot with the fear of being judged. I become paralyzed, my body frozen, my voice lost. I stand on the sidelines, watching others engage with ease while I stay silent, missing out on moments that could change my life. The simplest conversations, the ones that others take for granted, feel like insurmountable mountains for me. As a child, I was often the quiet one in the classroom, hiding behind my books, hoping no one would notice me. I missed out on friendships because I was too afraid to take that first step. I passed up chances to speak in class, even when I knew I had something important to contribute. Every moment of silence felt like a weight on my chest, but I couldn’t find the courage to speak. The fear was too loud, and it drowned out everything else. This anxiety is not just an occasional feeling, it plagues my daily life. It’s in the little moments when I hesitate before speaking, the nervous fidgeting in my seat before a presentation, or the lingering doubt that follows me long after a conversation has ended. I replay every interaction in my mind, wondering what I could have said differently, what I might have done to make a better impression. I’m trapped in a constant cycle of overthinking, my mind endlessly revisiting the same scenarios, each one more paralyzing than the last. But despite the fear and the doubt, I’ve slowly started to break free. It’s been a long and painful process, but I’ve begun to push myself, little by little, to do the things that scare me. I force myself to speak in class, to join group activities, to challenge my own silence. The red cheeks are still there, and my thoughts still race, but now, I try to find the courage to let them out, even if it’s just a small step forward. Pursuing a college degree is more than just a goal for me, it’s an act of defiance against the anxiety that has held me back for so long. It’s a commitment to stepping outside my comfort zone, to facing the fear that has been my constant companion, and to becoming the person I know I can be. I want to prove to myself that I am capable of more than my anxiety allows me to believe. I want to seize the opportunities I’ve spent so many years avoiding and build a future where I can thrive, not just survive. I know that the road ahead won’t be easy. My anxiety will always be a part of me, but I refuse to let it define me. I want to be someone who can make a difference, who understands the weight of silence, and who is determined to overcome it. It’s a journey I’m ready to take, and I am determined to succeed.

Adversity can show up in subtle ways, sometimes not as a single event, but as the quiet, ongoing challenges that shape how we see ourselves and the world. For me, it came through growing up in a split household and struggling for years to find the confidence to speak up. My parents separated when I was young, and ever since, I’ve lived between two homes. On the surface, I adjusted well. I had a roof over my head, food on the table, and parents who loved me. But emotionally, I often felt like I was living in two different worlds. Each house had its own rhythm, its own expectations, and its own set of unspoken rules. I became really good at adapting, but not so good at expressing myself. I worried that saying the wrong thing might cause tension, or that voicing my own feelings would make someone upset. So I stayed quiet. Being quiet wasn’t always about shyness, it was about protection. I kept my thoughts to myself and stayed in the background. At school, I was the student who had a lot to say but rarely raised her hand. With friends, I listened more than I shared. Inside, though, I had so much I wanted to express, dreams, questions, ideas, but I didn’t know how to let them out. Over time, though, things started to shift. I began journaling, just for myself, as a way to process what I was feeling. Writing gave me a safe place to say what I couldn’t always say out loud. Then, slowly, I started taking small steps outside of my comfort zone. I joined class discussions, spoke up in group projects, and even offered to lead prayer at youth group, something I never thought I’d have the courage to do. The turning point came when I realized that my voice mattered, not just to others, but to me. I didn’t have to be the loudest person in the room to make an impact. I could be thoughtful, intentional, and still be heard. And I could take the experiences from both sides of my family and use them as a source of strength, not confusion. Learning to navigate two different homes taught me adaptability, empathy, and emotional maturity, qualities I now see as gifts rather than burdens. Today, I’m proud of the person I’ve become. I still have a quiet side, but it’s no longer rooted in fear, it’s part of who I am. I speak up when it matters. I advocate for myself and others. And I’ve learned that being emotionally honest, even when it’s hard, is one of the most powerful things you can do. Overcoming the challenges of a split household and breaking out of my silence wasn’t easy. But it helped me grow into someone who is resilient, self-aware, and ready to lead with compassion. As I take the next step into college and pursue a career in medicine, I carry with me the strength that was forged in the quiet, and the voice I fought to find.